My first toronto friend just had a baby. Now, I don't mean the first baby a friend of mine had since I've lived in Toronto. I mean my first friend living in Toronto had a baby. I have friends back home who have had babies. But they live in the country, where babies come from. The safe, quiet, boring country where Ontario has raised it's children for generations. A cabbage patch of children waiting with eager storks. And it's also not my first friend who's lived in near the city with kids. She's a friend I met in Toronto, living here now with a newborn. And it stresses me out. I ran away from the country, I ran away to the circus. I came to the big city- and so did she and now she has a baby. I don't mean she had a baby frivolously, but now there's a baby that has become part of my village. And it scares the crap out of me. How can I possibly be a good example for teeny V?
I want to be a sweet Aunt, a sister her mother doesn't have (or want?). I don't know how to do it though. Don't get me wrong- Chillins luv me*insert gangster swagger, but I am a novelty. I am fun for an afternoon of adults acting like kids. I am great for forts and ghost stories and roasted marshmallows and sledding ...It's the day to day I worry about. My hubby and I are going to be part of that little baby's life; at parties, at weddings, big life events- we're friends with this baby's parents in a close and important way. But now...there's a baby in this circus. CIRCUS LOUD SPEAKER ANNOUNCEMENT: There's a baby here, there's a little, tiny, reliant life form that you love and have to help take care of!!!
When I met hubby, his friend's kids were already 3ish- except Little L and he arrived shortly after Hubby and I started dating. Though he was "still single" and didn't get invited to the baby stuff. I, on the other hand, have been to baby showers and 1st birthday parties all over Ontario, but I was the quirky girl who never gave the right thing (even though I always shopped from the baby registry*insert sigh)...But there hasn't really been kids around us. Well, maybe just 3 Special K's, and that's only within the last 8 months. (3 Special K's: One who looks like me, one who acts like me and one who looks like she will act like me)
Hubby and I often discuss having babies, 'cuz let's be honest they would be cute, warped, but cute:) Our opinion shifts with the wind. Taking into account: The world being so full of people- most of them a*holes... The environment, our personal lives, our jobs and our all around selfish behaviour. Through last week's disasters of caring for the dog with the bum surgery and living in a flooded building, I gotta tell ya- having a kid would have been rough... and even when all those mini disasters settled down life would continue to be tough, 'cuz you're somebody's mother. And that never ends.
Oh as for calling myself a juggernaut, I am nothing compared to this brand new baby Momma- her life truly is incomparable. This very special momma truly will not (or cannot) be stopped! But I hope she gets a nice long sleep tonight and can dish (preferably Hummus) with Melicious real soon.
PS Mama- I hear your toes, gently tapping- rap, rap, rapping on our bedroom door. You were born to be a Grandma :) and who am I to disappoint? Can we just wait 'til this writing things pays the bills?*insert puppy eyes
As we grow up making new friends becomes increasingly more difficult. Changing jobs, moving towns and having kids being exceptions that force us into new (and perhaps unwanted) relationships. Even though I am an awkward, control freak who isn't big on social graces, I relish making new friends, and here are some of my techniques.
1. Do things that you like. Don't forget that when you are doing things you like; hiking, swimming, laughing, ukeing, singing, you are a likeable you. People like people who share similar interests and show enthusiasm.
2. Do things you like alone. Being alone in public is awkward, but it's the best way to force you to talk to strangers. And a stranger is just a friend you haven't met. Though a stranger can also be a strange person, and it would be best not to become their friend. The more you meet people the better you will get at recognizing these Strangers.
3. Do things that you don't like, and see who else doesn't like them. Because sharing a common interest is key to a new friendship. And hatred seems to unite faster than love...sadly.
4. Get into trouble. I met one of my favourite people in traffic court- though I guess that can also qualify as doing something you don't like.
5. Eavesdropping is a useful tool. Listening in on a stranger's conversation and providing a dynamite drop in can stimulate conversation (though not always). Alternatively, it can also get you slapped, launch them into tears or create an embarrassing scene.
6. Tell people how much your current friends like you. It may be a lie, but your new friend will never know. I mean they will only find out when they become a friend who doesn't like you.
7. Take a good long look at your family. You can find the most surprising types of friends within your family. They can be tall friends, short friends, even friends with similar DNA! And these people already understand you- well, maybe understand isn't the right word, but my family knows what I mean.
8. Steal friends from your current friends. By making friends with your friend's friends, you increase your odds of being included. The more we get together, together, together, the more we get together, the happier we'll be. Only problem, don't vent about these friends to their friends... As the tighter the hive, the buzzier the bees.* insert hands on hips and cautious finger wag.
9. As a last ditch effort, steal something (like a neat yellow purse or jacket in inclement weather) and refuse any reward money when you return it. Start a conversation from there about what an amazing friend you would be (stealing aside).
These aren't foolproof techniques (oh wait, I am a fool and I use them...) And though I wouldn't recommend #9 if you have 2 strikes, I think that the ability to make new friends is an important tool to use. And we all know how I feel about tools, eh Hubby?
Last night after attending a sketch comedy show, I became the crazy stalker person I am deep inside. With all the tell-tale signs. The tweeting and Facebook posts to people, giving them props, and using inside jokes...but here's where it really gets weird. I made a play for the group. I tried to convince them I would be an asset to their already very talented team. Like I have anything to offer. I write down my slightly off centre remarks at a computer with no one to judge them...But I think I miss the judgement- at least I miss the feeling of saying you can't please everyone. And Sketch comedy is about not pleasing anyone but yourself. It's about writing something you think is funny and showing people who usually think you're funny and laughing together. There's no money in it. There is only fun. So I decided I want to have more fun, I am, against my better judgement I am going to start doing more comedy again. Now I know it's way, Way easier to read this from the comfort of your own home, but you should come too, I am going to take this show on the road. I just need a WIFI connection. SOooo maybe I'll see you in the great wide beyond very very soon. That is if this sketch troupe doesn't need a blonde, creepy, stalker-type in their upcoming show. Stay tuned fo'dat.
Also, today was neato, I got to watch clowns at work. And I don't mean the construction workers outside my door.*insert wink/nudge A friend of mine had a great audition opportunity, but this meant the ticket she bought needed a taker. So I took. An audience of 100 people and I watched as Philippe Gaulier a french master in La Jeu and Clown, toiled and teased and coerced people into being their nastiest, sexiest, niftiest or nicest selves. It truly is interesting to watch how capable some are and how natural the act of buffoon-ery comes to them...Something special happens when you put on a red nose. All the social stigmas of what's acceptable fly out the window. You're encouraged to take advantage of your faults and follies. It is expected that you will walk with vim and vigor- all clowns big and small. I think that being able to hide behind a red nose or funny hat or big shoes is a great way to express yourself. And I might not be too far off already, how would you feel about that? I am sure Hubby would love it.
Day 3 of captivity. Time is starting to drag now, my days and nights determined by the sunlight peeking through the clouds. The men keeping me captive walk the halls of this stripped and soggy building, talking loudly to each other in a language I don't understand. The machines they use are grinding a low hum- worse than constant laundry- somehow bigger, reminding me that we are the only people living on this floor. The 6 surrounding units evacuated, us left unscathed by the flood we are punished by being left here alone. The men entering units while knocking, forget this unit is still occupied. And me who likes to write in my pajamas, yelling: "Hold on!", scaring my sickly cell mate, who wants to sleep all day and cry all night. It's been days since I felt at ease... I like ease. No man shall be left behind, but I gotta get outta here. The animal paces when she awakes, banging into walls, door frames and getting caught on corners. There is an eeriness to her gait, the sad and familiar tinker toes with the gruesome cone snags and bangs. Her pile of blankets twisted into a sad and smelly nest.
The phone has been quiet, no word from the outside world. Except the get better texts, no work, no auditions, no play dates. I think the world knows we're in quarantine, on total lockdown. In an effort to feel less captive, and more stay-cation-ey, I gave my self an at home spa day... well, let's just say, at home disaster day. An intensive hair reconstruction treatment- that left my hair heavy and looking like I groom with a combination of seal blubber oil and adolescent insecurity. I soaked, trimmed, shaped and buffed my nails to an appropriate ukulele length (though it may be a few more days until I play as my pupparoo is always sleeping*insert air strum). This didn't go well. I cut my thumb, pointer and middle finger nails WAY too low and split the pinky one, and my cuticles are uber-dry from the change in seasons and lack of attention! As for my feet? Les sigh. These tender tootsies have been in winter boots with bamboo socks that give me splinters, so I again soaked, trimmed, buffed and shaped them- taking extra care to work off those calluses. Oh wait, only to walk the 10 steps my dog can take and stub my big toe- fracturing my big toe nail and maiming me.
My mother says there's never a dull moment with our family, and when things get overwhelming she's right. But when we're on a roll, I mean when we're really cooking, it's hard to stop us. I guess the tough thing about being a juggernaut is that it doesn't matter what direction you're going in- cause you're going all the way. I remember the sunny days, and I know I will see them again soon. I will get to snuggle Jilly, who will have grown all her hair back, in a building that has no water damage, with shiny, healthy hair and fingers and toes that belong in a spa magazine, oh yes, the time will come. But for now, I must wait for the damn machines in the hallway to stop screaming and be a quiet and vigilante cell mate, planning our escape. Leaving no man behind, except maybe hubby, he's normally a home body.
 The Tinker in her fancy Tiara It's nighttime, day of Jilly's surgery- she can't walk because of all the stitches in her bum. When she's standing there is a dopey sway...I think she's as comfortable as she can be, but my poor sleepy puppy smells like surgery and dehydrated dog breath. Her pain pills (of which there are a solid stream of 4 different types to be given throughout the day) need to be taken every 6-8 hours so I have set an alarm for 4:30 am... beep beep beep... I wake to find a glazed eyed puppy staring at me from the inside of her shiny new plastic cone...but that sound... what is that sound? It's a rushing, swooshing and dripping sound. It's not coming from her. I can also hear my neighbours faintly in the hallway... their voices getting closer then drifting away, but the water is getting louder... is that possible?
Yes. Yes, it is. It is very possible. A pipe has burst on the 7th floor and is rushing down the stairwell, through the hallway and into the 4th floor condos...This is happening people. A sad neighbour girl sitting in a puddle, wrapped in a blanket, watching her husband pacing and raving about the ruined mattress and upgraded hardwood floors. Firemen (side note: Calendar firemen don't work the 4 am shift) bustling around, tracing the water to the source, triggering the fire alarm and yelling to each other, all their sentences seem to end with "Mac". Add to that maintenance men in soggy steel toe boots, walking on squishy hallway carpet, ripping up brand new and totally ruined flooring, in the newly moved in neighbouring units, sand blasting and grinding the freshly painted walls and ripping out unused appliances. Also- building security knocking on doors, asking if everyone is alright inside- (which I would have thought was a fireman's job) and asking if there was damage. It's a drippy and depressing 5 ring circus and we're trying to sleep in here! It was a very traumatic day! I mean c'mon!
You know the saying when it rains, it pours... We're lucky that when it rained here- Hubby, Bean and I had the good luck of wearing our rain slickers. We were the only unit on our floor that was unscathed, as of yet- though they have been very clear that seepage is a real danger. Other than the 4 am hubub and ballyhoo and the early morning intensive labour we're alright. The Stinker with her sound amplifying cone has been a trooper and continues resting comfortably, though it's clearly drug induced. And as far as perfect timing goes- Jilly hates getting her feet wet, so she would want to be carried down the spongy hall surgery or not. Sometimes things just work out...:$
PS: 4B- that sucks about your mattress, but is there anything better than a new mattress?
I awoke this morning to a hungry puppa. A four foot stompy-stomp Bean, asking for her breakfast... But we aren't supposed to give it to her. Today is Jilly's surgery. Her canine vaginal reconstruction, butt who am I to judge? I am looking out my window at the typical hustle and bustle of a Tuesday morning, don't they know my fur-baby is going under the knife? How could they act so callously? Going about their business as if it's no biggie? It's Jilly for crying out loud. The Cutest, Sweetest and most special Tinker in the whole wide world. Hubby and I had to drop her off for her procedure at 8am... but 8am when you're anxious is rough! It turns into 7am, which really means more like 6am and I am up, tossing and turning. Trying to snuggle the beegeebus out of this little fur-nace before I have to send her away and she comes back stiff, sore and in-dog-icated (a word I just made up meaning a dog doped out of their gourd). I am nervous.
Cue the nervous burps. A symptom Hubby recognizes immediately- as they were very present throughout the wedding planning. And the snapping, because I can control that emotion- I realize I get from my Papa. Because for some reason being in control makes me feel less scared. So I snap and bark and whine and complain- deferring all those really scared little emotions for mean and selfish overreactions. Walking in silence both of us nervous, this family of 3 (Lucy stayed home) open the vet door and are greeted by a smiling and competent face, which still doesn't make me feel better and the smell of ammonia and sick animals triggers the tears, so I reach down and touch Jilly's satin ears and she yawn squeaks- her version of a nervous burp. So I kiss her and tell her to be brave. Tell her she's the bestest Tinkeroo, and I love her. Then Hubby takes my hand and we bravely walk out of the clinic. And I cry in the Starbucks- keeping my sunglasses on of course, so no one is the wiser- ya right, except for the Irish keening sound I can't seem to control.
I mean, really, it's life, right? Sometimes it's good and easy and fun and sometimes it's surgery and falling down and paper cuts. Hubby says it's practise. Oh geez, I don't want to practise this stuff...I don't just want it to happen either... But honestly this is where my problem lies- How do you tell your favourite fur-baby (no offense Lucy*insert hot under the collar gesture) that you love her and that everything is fine and that she will be okay, it's going to be weird and painful for a while but hopefully it will be fine...Can you speak Peagle? (That's Jilly's pretentious mixed breed name*insert gag me gesture) I hope she knows that. And why would I think she wouldn't know? Maybe that's the point... If we live our lives and love hard everyday- when the paper cut stuff happens, we aren't scared that people or puppas don't know you love them. So give someone a hug or call your favourite person to remind them: It's only life and you're happy you've got'em:) As for Jilly, I think she knows.
It's because to them you're the most beautiful girl in the room. The one and only... The girl of their dreams. Their calendar girl. You can call me crazy and even though it may be true, I love boy bands. There is something special about the way that formula works. There's a lid for every pot. An object for every affection. The quirky one, the sensitive one, the bad boy, the tough one, the brainy one. Whatever your flavour of the week, there's a boy just for you. They are the neapolitan of music- chocolate, vanilla or strawberry... Why choose when you can have all 3?!?!
If I think back far enough, I remember NKOTB then BSB then N*Sync now One Direction, with some Take That, Boyz II Men and All 4 One sprinkled in for flava. How deep was my love, you might ask? Well, it's truly, madly, deeply the most predictable love of all. I know, I know, it's not COOL to love boy bands with their pop music and choreo-dance moves, their cheesy lyrics or their manufactured sound, but I'd be the first person to tell you, I'm not cool. It's possible that I might be the reason they exist. I am a 30 year old married woman who still goes gooey when 5 teenage-looking boys harmonize about how lovely I am... Well, I think they're talking to me...
The boy band is not a new phenomenon. It's been happening since screaming young women could buy an LP or Cassette tape or CD or MP3 or a special release collection from iTunes. It's been happening since Beatle-mania- it's been happening since music began. There will always be a special place on the Billboard charts for the boy band, though for one reason or another they'll never be taken seriously as musicians, unless they live in a Yellow Submarine... No matter how involved boy bands are in the writing and production of their music, they remain judged by the rest of music-land and post-pubescent society as lame. Like being a boy band with a squeaky clean-teeny-bopper image is a bad thing. Teaching our girls that it's better to what? Chris Brown that shit? or get busted for drinking and driving? Wouldn't it be better if we encouraged our girls to daydream about things a little less violent and legally limited? It doesn't seem like a big deal... But instead, we want them to grow up- stop listening to that bubblegum? But I love bubblegum and I am double-mint-serious.
In a perfect world, the boy band would be celebrated by more than the screaming fans holding out hope that someday, if I could just meet Joe, I know he would fall in love with me... Cause he's the young one, and we're closest in age. I mean that makes sense...right? To be screaming from the top row of the Skydome taking flash photos of tiny dancing shapes on a pyrotechnic stage! You'd love me if you met me....I believe in our love, Joe. I know it borders on creepy-stalker when I talk like that, but there's just something about being an awkward girl growing up awkwardly, being worried that no one will love you the way you are and having a boy band look right down the barrel and tell you: "You are the most beautiful girl in the world." and even if it's not true, I believe it anyway.
Holidays are a special time to spend with the ones you love. But like most people, my family stresses out a bit. My father transforms from his typical sunny self into Scrooge McDuck (a very special Easter Scrooge). My father-in-law apologizes for ruining everything. My brother bitches about how people are faking their niceness. And my mother and mother-in-law both strive to make everything perfect, which never happens, because none of us are perfect. Hubby and I have decided with all the pressure of making time together special, we should develop new traditions, based on a simple and clear objective: Let's have fun being together.
I want my family, both sides, to know that I love them winter, spring, fall and summer too, even though it's my busy season. I don't need the government to give me a day off to remind me that I love them. I just do. I love them on days when I am happy and even more on days when I'm sad. I love it when my mother-in-law pocket dials me 3 times in a row, then calls to apologize. I love my brother- even though for some reason he thinks it's weak to say he loves me- but like the song says, someday it will be too late, so I tell him all the time. I love my Mama. Full stop. I love my Aunt especially when she's sitting on her deck , suntanned and laughing in the rainbow kisses. I love my Hubby, when he knows I worked all day in a cold space and that his furnace body is the only thing keeping me from hypothermia. I love my new Cousin who has become more of a sister and my soul's twin. My family is spread far and wide. And though I am not always around to say it, it's because of them I-yam-what-I-yam.
So, this holiday season I would like to say thank you Family. You're weird and wonderful and full of surprises. I love you all so very much, you have to know that... You built my sense of humour. You encouraged me reach for the things I want. You proved that you are strong enough to be who you are, and also tough enough to take the heat for it. All told, let's make a pact to stick together and eat some great food and wear our fancy Easter bonnets, 'cuz you know our family- we look great in hats.
Alrighty, it's that time of the year again. The time when the government gives you, (or your spouse) a bit of money to say: Hey, thanks for giving us money all year and to divert us from what's about to happen. TAXES....taxes. As a "self-employed performer" who must collect her HST from each "employer" or "client" tax time for me can be stressful, should I stay or should I owe? And here's the kicker I don't understand taxes and receipt counting and totals and TFS accounts and RRSPs, GICs, UFOs etc. I don't get it. Why are there so many lines and factors? The cheat sheet shorthand guide is ten million pages thick, and you can file online but you have to print out all ten million pages too, and then keep it for 8 years? Oh, and if you're a canadian citizen, but you don't live here, you pay our taxes and you pay in your current country? Hello, help, I raise my hand meekly to ask a question. How does property tax work? Where is the beef? Is it possible for a person who doesn't work at a government or accounting office to understand these things? Why are they so complicated? Wouldn't it be better if everyone could understand? Unless, it's just me. In which case I say play through sir, and I tip my hat to you. Oh, and I don't understand those HRBlock commercials, but they're memorable, so I guess we can consider it mission: accomplished.
My loving Hubby is a shoe box man. Every receipt goes into a box, which stays somewhat chronological but that is the only things organized about them. I on the other hand, have been trying, for the last 8 years, not to do that. Though around Sept I usually forget and end up organizing 4 months the night before I drop them of with Alice the accountant. Alice is smart as a whip and a breeze to be around with a comforting rainforest slideshow screen saver. The perfect accountant. The last one was a slightly sticky looking bald man in a stale office that had a squeaky door and exposed ceilings that looked saggy and spongey. As for Hubby and I this year we will be filing as husband and wife for the very first time. I couldn't be happier for Tax Season:) Happy taxing!
Strawberry jam, hand-sewn quilts and tea & sandwiches for 150. Nobody does it like the Church Ladies. They are a special group who've known you since you were this high*indicating just higher than their knee. They know your family, they know your history and they remember the funny things you did in the Christmas Pageant when your dream of acting was ignited, cast in the starring role of Mary of Nazareth, with a baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes. Church ladies work together, they pickle and can and stitch, they take care. I grew up watching women bustle around a commercial kitchen with pots, no vats of chilli slow cooking on the stove as one chops, one rinses, one pulls out fresh baking from the oven, surrounded by the smells of homemade love. These women have always been ladies, their penmanship is exquisite with the cursive letters leaning to the right, gracefully connecting one thought to the next.
For my wedding shower these women who've watched me grow up threw me a church basement party. Which is exactly what I wanted. I wanted church lady sandwiches- egg salad, deviled ham and canned salmon, 'cuz there is nothing like a church lady sandwich. I wanted mismatched tea cups that had been bestowed by members of the congregation who had passed away. I wanted fresh made pie with lard crust. I wanted it to feel like all the showers I had attended my whole life. A symbol to the world I was growing up, that I was graduating from one stage of life to the next.
The church lady is a dying breed, both literally and figuratively. These women put the mass before the individual. They donate their time and wares (jams, pies or quilts) to support their beliefs and each other. Though the word feminist isn't typically associated with a church lady, they are. They prove that a group of strong women can create, laud and honour themselves. Taking pride in the knowledge that they are making a difference. I have always known these women as a selfless group, giving to others with food and merriment. Nurturing a sense of belonging. In this time when our lives are being torn between PVR, work commutes and general selfishness we would be smart to take a lesson from them. By pulling together we are stronger, and the pulling is a lot easier.
For me, I wish it wasn't a forgotten group as there is nothing better than fresh homemade jam. The lessons they teach each other are invaluable. And my favourite wedding shower card quote: Men require a lady in the kitchen and a Tiger in the bedroom. Thank you Church Ladies, I wish there were more like you.
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